THE READING LAMP 2017

When it Comes to PoetryHave the coolrefreshing morningshowers of poetry becomeswamps and stagnantbug infested poolsof wrinkled scum?

My daylight creeps in silently at dawnnot broken, breaking so much as a crack.And darkness in her endlessness is done,a blush of brightening is coming back.

I’m welcoming to life another dayin wonder as the world awakens me.When it comes to poetry,more novel than ideasor inspiration, so much asit takes eyes and ears.

​copyright 2018

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GhostsThe host of characters whose echoes reachAcross our past to call us by surprise.Whose legions we dissolved in historyThose sublimated over the last rise.

All strangers haunting empty confidenceDrumming nags who fail to assureI could return and stop myself in timeAnd resurrect those careless ways once more.

Just how can I resist when I am swept?By holding to the promises I’ve kept!Correctly!In the present I am fixed.Properly, in the here and now!And proudly calling it my parting ways.

The purpose of the present isTo separate the former fromWhat will come to be in future days.

As the vantage of the youngIs to bring comfort to the oldSo they can dream through their twilight days.

copyright 2018

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​ I Think I ThoughtI think I thought I did it since I thought to think I couldI’m thinking that I thought I would have done it when I should.I surely hope I did it and it’s done and done for goodAs far as my understanding, it’s understood.

I think I thought I did it as I oughtSince I thought to think that I shouldn’t have forgot.I’m thinking quite a lot instead of maybe rather not.Being neither here nor there or not I surely hope I have a shot.

Will it be no or yes or will you leave me here to guess?If less could have a little more it could be more or less.Your heart will want to scream with a hearty yes or noIf you’re stuck between them both we’ll never ever know.

If you do get stuck between the up and downAre you somewhere tumbling over and over and around?Will you show up nowhere and for never to be found?If you’re neither here nor there or not how can you come around?

There was a bright, multi-coloured flash accompanied by a deafening bang. All in all a very proper flash and bang. The attending wizards where very pleased with themselves, and rightly so. The following events, however, were less than satisfactory to them all, but for one of them in particular. The creature they had summoned from the other plane of existence materialised right after the flash and bang and it was a frightening entrance, to say the least. It had clearly had a lot of momentum at the time of its summoning and the speed it had gained was enough to break through the protective circle the wizards had erected to hold the alien entity at bay. With a rumbling scream it broke through the barrier, its two low set but brightly lit eyes blinding the unfortunate wizard that stood directly in its path. The wizard never saw what came at him and, in all fairness, it was better he didn’t. The torchlight in the large chamber was reflected on the metallic armoured skin of the beast as it hurled itself in the direction of the back wall, crushing the wizard between itself and the aforementioned wall. As it was, this wall appeared to be stronger than the enraged demon and a whole lot stronger than the wizard, who died instantly. The remaining wizards rained destructive spell after spell at the now immobile beast. Some of them because they had overcome their initial shock and realised that a maddened demon could not be allowed to break free and wreak further havoc, others worked purely out of instinct and fear. Fire, lightning, water and suddenly conjured up walls were unleashed to kill the demon and made a grand spectacle of the whole occasion in the process. In the end even its round shaped paws had stopped their frantic spinning because they had been melted by the fire and lightning, cooled off by the following gush of water and finally crushed by bricks for good measure. Afterwards, the untimely death of the wizard who had started this summoning business in the first place was properly mourned. His demise was felt to be extremely ironic since it proved that his theories of otherworldly entities and their ritualistic and highly magical passing into this world were, in fact, correct. It was also discovered that he was right about the name of this so-called demon, which was conveniently found etched on the hindquarters of the carcass. It had a proper frightening name, one you could use to scare the children with. It was called ‘Suzuki’.

Sunday NightsI am not sure if this is the way it has always been, lurking around the corners in my mindbut today I opened my eyesto the dark.

There was not a distinct moment where Sadness ran its fingers through my hair, brushed over my nose and against my cheeks,where it gently kissed circles around my mouth, then ripped me open and climbed inside,but for the first time in a long time, I felt it build a home in the pit of my stomach.

I felt it pillage my safetyand smash down the walls around my heart. Sadness wrapped itself around my lungs and hugged so tight until I could no longer breathe,suffocating meuntil my blood ran rivers down the valleys and mountains of my skinand there was no more thump-thumpingin my fragile chest.

Sadness picked its teeth with my bones,and took the stars from the sky to set my soul in flames.

It watched me burn,then my old friend, Sadness, buried itself in the ashes of my remains.

“Yesterday, June 17th, I gave up refined sugar.” Dana logged the date into her phone. Here we go again. “And how does that affect me?” “In college, you wouldn’t let me drive drunk. Now, I won’t let you develop diabetes.” Dana snatched my sprinkle-encrusted double-glazed donut. “And this has more sugar than the donut.” She grabbed my caramel latte. “I won’t even mention the caffeine.” “Good. Because you gave me that lecture last week.” Twenty-five years earlier, a leather-clad Dana ran her Suzuki GSX over my Prada tote bag. She apologized by taking me on my first motorcycle ride across campus. The tired cliché that says, opposites attract, formed a lifelong friendship. “It’s a glorious new day!” Dana jogged in place. I was blinded by sunlight that reflected off Dana’s snow-white Reeboks. She started speed walking on May 28th and hadn’t stopped. She pointed to the Ferris wheel in the distance. “We’ll reach Santa Monica Pier by noon.” “Then can I get a corn dog?” “No way.” Dana started walking, pumping her arms. “Hot dogs have sodium nitrite.” I struggled to keep pace. “You mean salt?” A twisted clump of seaweed clung to my heel. “Fourth of July, 2012, I ate my last dog.” Dana’s voice muffled as the space between us grew. My sides already ached. Dana, a recovering drug addict, alcoholic, and chain-smoker, took long vigorous strides like a model for a fitness magazine. After college, Dana bounced between bad relationships and rehabs. I married a local politician and raised two children. By the time Dana sobered up and settled down, my marriage had crumbled. The kids moved away. I packed on thirty pounds. Dana rescued a plastic pail for a toddler then bent to tie her shoe. She motioned for me to catch up. My sagging stomach cast a shadow over my sluggish feet. With flab-free arms, Dana caught a wayward Frisbee destined for my forehead. “That was close!” “Another life saved.” I rolled my eyes. “Why don’t you log that into your phone?” For years, Dana documented her every good deed and healthful habit that resulted from crushing evil vices under her rock-hard will. Dana dug inside her backpack. “A blow to the head can be deadly.” She pulled out a banana and pointed it like a revolver. “Right. Death by Frisbee is so common.” I sighed. “And I don’t need your fruit!” “Natural sugar. You get cranky when you’re hungry.” She wiggled the banana. “Are you my mother?” A kite scraped my calf as a boy dragged it through the sand. “I’m going home.” “We just got here.” Dana hoisted the kite into the breeze. Her thick hair frolicked in the wind. My thin strands tangled. “I need to get back in case—” “In case Slimeball Sam returns? Or your cat needs company?” Dana laughed. I had the urge to slap her flawless skin. “You’re cruel.” “Realistic.” Dana stretched her toned hamstrings. “You can’t live in a fantasy world.” “If my real life was anything like yours these days, I wouldn’t need to fantasize. Last week the gallery showcased your work and next week you marry Mr. Wonderful.” Lately, I resented how many optimistic turns Dana’s life had taken. “To get here, I traveled a bumpy road.” Dana’s shoulders slumped. “Still plenty of bumps. I didn’t sell a single piece of pottery and Mr. Wonderful is hardly perfect.” I snorted. “You didn’t raise kids. My road was filled with potholes.” “Fine. So your life wasn’t a Hallmark movie. The kids are grown. Time for you to move on.” “That’s all you ever do!” I kicked sand in Dana’s direction. “You’re addicted to moving on: opening chapters, flipping pages, turning over new and shinier leaves. That’s your latest addiction.” Dana sat down and brushed sand off her shoes. “And you’re obsessed with your past. I’m not the one sleeping with photo albums and bottles of chardonnay.” My sugar-starved brain envied a seagull that pecked at a discarded Twinkie wrapper. “At least I have a past worth visiting.” “That’s true. I’d sooner die than relive my past.” Dana threw the banana at my feet. “Except for the day I met you.” I tried to lighten the mood. “Here’s a date to add to your crazy list—today, June 18th, the day you forced me to eat fruit instead of fried dough.” I grabbed the banana that landed near a startled crab. Dana adjusted her sunglasses but didn’t look in my direction. “It was your idea to keep track of anniversaries.” “I didn’t mean you should record everything! Like the date you stopped chewing pencil erasers. Seriously?” “It was a real problem. I even swallowed a few.” “Dana the drama queen.” I untied my shoelaces. “Speaking of drama, remember when you told everyone in our dorm I’d be dead before my twenty-first birthday?” Dana stroked a smooth black oyster shell. “I proved you wrong.” I gazed at the ocean and drifted back to the day I discovered Dana unconscious on the shower room floor. Since then, how many tears had I shed trying to save Dana from herself? I took off my shoes. Sand fleas swirled around my toes. Dana showed me her phone. “I did this to satisfy you.” There was a daily calendar entry for the past three years. The day she graduated from Overeater’s Anonymous, quit cocaine, started volunteering, and stopped gambling. “No marijuana?” I joked. “Never tried it.” How was that possible? She scrolled through dozens of endings and even more beginnings: August 16th—quit chewing nails. September 21st—start regular manicures. I shook my head. “Teach me how to kick the habit of craving my old life.” Dana took my hand. “Go back to school. Take a cooking class. I’m worried about you.” That’s a switch. I smiled. “I could join Weight Watchers.” “Whatever floats your boat. Just stop depending on others for your happiness.” Dana drew a heart in the sand then dragged a ragged line through the center. Her backpack tipped. An unopened pack of Marlboros fell out. “What’s that?” “Are you my mother?” She tossed the cigarettes into her bag. “A keepsake to remind me how far I’ve come on my journey.” A full bottle of pills rolled onto the sand. I backed away like it was a scorpion. “More souvenirs?” “I wrestle with demons in my own way.” She grabbed the bottle and zipped her bag. I pointed at her pack. “That’s not wrestling. That’s babysitting.” Dana hugged the bag and looked away. Just then my phone rang. It was my daughter. “Jennifer?” I wandered near the water’s edge. “Me? A grandmother?” Thirty minutes later I danced back to where I had left my friend, eager to share my news. I scanned the beach. Three cigarette butts formed a triangle in the sand. Dana often disappeared when she got bored. To call her was futile. Recently, she stopped answering her phone; stress relief therapy. I peeled the banana and shoved half of it into my mouth—a disappointing substitute for a donut. I ground it in to baby food. Dutiful Dana is probably saving a drowning child or administering the Heimlich maneuver. I threw the peel in a fly-infested garbage can. I sent Dana a text, “Heading home”. A message from her, sent five minutes before, read, “June 18th. No more saving dates”. About time. What would she try next? I eased the Volkswagen onto the freeway.

Dana’s usual morning call was late. My coffee cup whirled in the microwave as the newspaper thunked against the front door. Venice Beach made the headlines: Woman’s body found in public restroom. Suspected overdose.​copyright 2018

“Welcome to the Peace Corps, and welcome to Guatemala,” was the greeting Taylor received at the airport from Ricardo, the Peace Corp office manager. He hesitated at the exit door as there were throngs of people outside the airport terminal. “Don’t mind the crowd, hustling is a way of life here, follow me,” said Ricardo. He declined newspapers, shoe shines, taxis, and assistance of all sorts as Taylor followed him through the crowd. At six foot-four, Taylor was a giant in the crowd. Safely inside the van, Taylor asked, “Is it always like that?” There was no response as the van maneuvered through the crowded streets and somehow avoided the motorcycles threading in and out of lanes. “People drive crazy here.” Ricardo said “We say TIG – This is Guatemala.” Sensing Ricardo wasn’t much on small talk, Taylor dozed on and off during the four-hour trip through the mountains to municipality of Quetzaltenango. The Peace Corp site was an old school building in a nearby village. The bunkroom, offices, and classrooms in the building were small and cluttered. Taylor ducked under the door frame and entered the bunkroom. The room was sparsely decorated with two curtainless windows. “Hi, I’m Taylor,” he said to two young women sitting on bunks. “Hi, Taylor, I’m Ashley and that’s Jordan. We’re from Idaho, where are you from?” “Maine.” “Oh, are we going to have potato-state problems here?” Ashley asked. “Not if we agree that Maine has the best-tasting potatoes,” Taylor replied. All three young people laughed. “I knew we’d be friends as soon as I saw you smile,” Ashley lit up the room when she smiled. Ashley continued, “We’re all new here. Recently, Guatemala had been politically stable, at least by Guatemalan standards, so the Peace Corp reestablished an office there. The road from Guatemala City to Quetzaltenango was no longer controlled by Rebels; Police corruption had been reduced, but the rural people were still no better off than before. The three talked about their assignments and the areas they would be heading. “So we won’t be very close to each other?” Taylor asked. “Jordan and I are in neighboring villages, but you’ll be five hours away. We won’t be able to get together very often,” Ashley said. “But you are in Peter’s area.” “Who’s Peter,” Taylor asked. “He’s a legend. You haven’t heard about him?” “Is he a Peace Corp volunteer?” “Sit down on that bed. Jordan tells the story better than me.” Jordan slid to the edge of her bunk, brushed a wisp of blond hair from her forehead, and began. “Peter was volunteer in the '80swhen the Peace Corp was last here. It was a time of political unrest. He was riding on a Chicken Bus from Quetzaltenango to Chimaltenango when Rebels stopped the bus and robbed everyone. They took Peter to hold for ransom. Back then, the Rebels controlled the roads beyond Chimaltenango and collected “tolls” from everyone one the road. It wasn’t a nice time.” “Is it better now? I mean, with the Rebels,” Taylor asked. “Oh yes, the Rebels are fairly quiet now. When they do get active, the police fear them. For the most part, it’s the police you have to worry about.” “What!?” “Don’t worry, Taylor, she’s joking,” said Ashley. “Anyway,” Jordan continued, “they had him for weeks. His foster parents in the States refused to send any money. The police did less. The Rebels cut the tip of his little finger off his left-hand and delivered it to the Peace Corp office. Eventually, an elder from the village where he was assigned went to the Rebels and got him released. Peter went back to his village to continue his work and ignored demands that he return to the Peace Corp office. He fell in love with the oldest daughter of the village elder, married her, and has been there ever since, raising a family. “They cut off his finger?” asked Taylor. “Part of it.” “Ashley! You wouldn’t want any part of your finger cut off, would you?” asked Jordan. “Lights out in fifteen minutes – we need to hit the bunks,” Ashley said. “Grab any empty bunk. Ricardo is serious about lights out.” “It was great meeting you two girls and I hope we can catch up again, at least over the holidays. I shove off tomorrow.” Taylor smiled, he liked making new friends. The next morning, Taylor rose and left before the girls woke up. The slow drive over the mountain roads allowed him to soak in the scenery. Valleys, volcanos, crops and villages seamlessly morphed from one to another. Taylor was sure this was where he was meant to be. The air was thin enough in Quetzaltenango at 7,600 feet, but his village was 1,000 feet higher yet. It would take him a while to acclimate to the thin air. Taylor’s Spanish improved during his first two weeks and he started picking up some Mam from his host family. Progress on the drinking water project was slow as it was planting time. The village needed to have the crops in the ground before the start of the rainy season. Tilling the fertile red soil with a large hoe and planting fava bean in the high altitude was hard work, but it connected him with the people in the village. Finally, the bean planting was done and people in the village needed a break. Taylor was gathered with his host family on benches outside the home. “¿Puedo ir contigo a la ciudad?” asked Taylor. “Yes, you can come to the city with us, Taylor. Your Spanish is getting very good,” said Manuel, the father of his host family.Manuel and his sons piled into the cab while Taylor climbed into the bed of the battered old Toyota pickup. Manuel accelerated the truck once they hit the main road to Quetzaltenango. Taylor smiled when the air rushed through his long hair and remembered the same exhilaration from his high school days in Maine. “Cold drink stop,” said Manuel, as he and his two boys piled out of the truck cab. Lounging in the truck bed, basking in the sun, Taylor was startled awake by a gruff voice. “Policía. Tienes que venir conmigo.” “I’m not going with you; I’ve done nothing wrong.” Two of the men dressed in police uniforms drew their weapons while a third smashed Taylor over the head with a baton. The three dragged the unconscious Taylor out of the truck bed and into a waiting van and drove off. The entire episode was over in less than two minutes. A few minutes later, Manuel and his boys came out from the store. They called around and looked in the bathroom, but there was no trace of Taylor. Manuel called the police from the store. The news spread around the village. Some of the men went to contact Rebels to plead for Taylor’s release. A young, long-haired six-foot four-inch American male would be hard to hide in the native Mayan villages where the milk chocolate-colored men were rarely taller than five foot four. The next day, Ricardo showed up with the police at Manuel’s house and questioned the family about the abduction. No one had seen or heard anything in or outside of the store where they stopped for a cold drink. After several repeats of the same questions, the police officer said, “Well, we haven’t heard from the kidnapers.” “So what are you doing here?” asked Manuel. “Go find him.” Later that evening, several village men came to Manuel’s home. Manuel and his sons stepped outside and closed the door. This did not concern his wife. “The Rebels don’t have the boy. But they will look for him.” Manuel’s oldest son asked, “If the Rebels, don’t have him, who does?” “Policía. Militar,” was the response from one of the village men. “I thought that was all over. You mean it’s not?” his son asked. No one answered. “He is not going to have a very good night.” Manuel said what everyone knew. He and his boys went inside and the men departed. Deep in the woods at a small camp, Taylor wasn’t having a good night. He put pressure on the side of his head and stopped the bleeding. He hoped his arm should stop throbbing soon. One beating convinced him that shouting or trying to escape was not a good idea. That, and being handcuffed to an iron hook imbedded in a large stone. Taylor rattled the handcuffs and asked, “But you are police, why are you doing this?” No response. Taylor looked around the camp and saw three men, several tents, a small cooking fire, and some rudimentary utensils. Okay, this was included in his Peace Corp training: engage them in conversation, assess the situation, get their empathy. Stay calm. “I’m hungry. Can I get something to eat?”Still no answer. “I would like to pray; may I borrow someone’s Bible? You do have a Bible here at camp, don’t you?” “Quiet, you.” “Uh, how nice. Someone to talk to. Hi amigo, I’m Taylor. I’m a Peace Corp volunteer working on bringing fresh water to villages. I sorta skipped lunch and would appreciate a tortilla or anything really.” “Jose, give him something to shut him up,” the leader said.Progress. As he was handed a small stack of tortillas, he said, “Gracias, Jose. How long you think we’ll be out here?” “I’m not supposed to talk to you.” “Well, you’re talking to me now, so what’s the harm? Thank you for the tortillas. We’ll talk more later.” As he ate, Taylor closed his eyes to concentrate on what he could hear of the conversations around the cooking fire. “No one has come forward with a reward offer for his return.” “Captain said he visited his village and nothing happened.” “Quiet down.” “He’s asleep, relax.” Taylor woke with the daylight and the noise of cooking. He tried to engage José in conversation. Two captors left and one stayed for the day. But all three were there overnight. This rotating shift was repeated for a week with little variation. But the opposite was happening at Taylor’s village. The men with Rebel contacts scoured the countryside to no avail. Men from neighboring villages were recruited and expanded the search. Communication was rudimentary and slow, yet effective. When the Ricardo stopped by without the police, Manuel assured him people were looking for Taylor. As long as there was no offer of reward from the US, Taylor would be okay. Kidnappers want money and will wait for word of a reward being offered. They don’t contact officials asking for ransom. “We have many looking for Taylor. We will find him.” When Ricardo drove away, Manuel turned to his oldest son and said, “Spread the word, make the search wider.” Three days later, a small group of men gathered in the dark outside Manuel’s home. After discussion, they departed and Manuel went inside. “It is done,” Manuel told his sons. “Taylor will be back in few days. Mention this to no one.” Five men from a neighboring village packed for a trip into the woods and left the next morning. Before nightfall, the five men were in position surrounding the camp where Taylor was being held. Something was different. He could sense it. A presence. Taylor grew up in the Maine woods. He did not fear it. Breakfast routine was the same as it had been for days. Eggs, beans, tortillas, bickering among the captors. Now it had intensified as apparently, no one was asking about him. After the meal, the routine continued when two of the captors left. Taylor was quietly observant that morning. Minutes after the two captors disappeared, he heard two small yelps followed by gurgling sounds. The remaining captor either didn’t hear or chose to ignore the sounds. The remaining captor looked up when three men suddenly appeared wielding machetes. The tallest, the leader, said, “Tecla.” The captor handed him a key with shaking hands. The leader pointed to the woods and the captor took off. Taylor winced when he heard a yelp and gurgling sounds from the woods. Two men covered in blood spatter appeared from the woods. The leader handed one of them the key, and he unlocked the handcuffs. Taylor didn’t recognize the men. “Uh, thanks, guys.” There was no response from the five men as they headed in the direction opposite of what the captors took. “What direction do I go?” Taylor asked. The leader turned and pointed into the woods with his right arm. As the leader turned back, Taylor noticed his left hand was missing the tip of the little finger.TIG ­­— This is Guatemala.

Author

Educated in the local institutions, Richard Knickerbocker spent most of his life as an Industrial Engineer. Now retired, the love of his youth is rejuvenated in the art of poetry and song.With free time spent working with a local outreach, he works with a canteen truck going into the community daily distributing food, clothing, love and companionship to our needy and homeless friends in the community. His organization is funded by local churches and business.Patrick Sint Nicolaas is an amateur writer from Holland. I write in Dutch and occasionally in English

Keisha Lent is an English student at Acadia University in Nova Scotia, Canada. She has been writing poetry unpublished for 11 years, and published in Acadia University’s newspaper since October 2015.

Kimberlee Esselstrom’s eclectic works have been published in The Christian Science Monitor, Highlights, Knowonder!, Mom Writers Literary Magazine, KU Center for Testing & Evaluation, FWA Collection, and many others.

DJ Tyrer is the person behind Atlantean Publishing, was placed second in the 2015 Data Dump Award for Genre Poetry, and has been published in The Rhysling Anthology 2016, issues of Cyaegha, Carillon, Frostfire Worlds, Illumen, The Pen, Scifaikuest, Sirens Call, Tigershark and California Quarterly, and online at Makata, Three Drops from a Cauldron, Bindweed, Poetry Pacific, Scarlet Leaf Review and The Muse, as well as releasing several chapbooks, including the critically acclaimed Our Story. DJ Tyrer's website is at http://djtyrer.blogspot.co.uk/ The Atlantean Publishing website is at http://atlanteanpublishing.blogspot.co.uk/

NT Franklin writes after his real job hoping one day to have it be his real job. He writes cozy mystery short stories, nostalgia short stories, and Flash Fiction. When not reading or writing short stories, you might find him fishing or solving crossword puzzles.

JD DeHart is a writer and teacher. His poetry has appeared at Eunoia Review and Illya's Honey, among other places. He blogs at jddehartpoetry.blogspot.com.